The Book of Belsambar
by Balancing Act
Summary: In the ruins of Belsambar's ancient tower, Geran, Heir of Riva, finds an ancient book: a book written by the little-known and long-forgotten Angarak sorcerer.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The world and some of the characters in this story belong to David Eddings.  
  
Geran, Heir to the throne of Riva, walked slowly through the ruins of Belsambar's tower, thinking of the long-lost sorcerer who had been his grandfather's brother. Belgarath, of course, wasn't really his grandfather, since Father called him grandfather as well. But Geran figured it was better than saying, "great-great-great-great-great-great-great" again and again and again.  
  
Belsambar had been an Angarak, Geran remembered. Mother had read part of grandfather's book to him, though she had read Aunt Pol's book more. Mother seemed to like Aunt Pol's book more. Geran wondered why. Maybe it was because they were both girls. Girls seemed to think in a certain way. Geran shrugged to himself as he picked his way around the massive blocks of stone strewn across the landscape, half-imbedded in the ground.  
  
These stones were thousands of years old, Geran reminded himself. He was a little surprised they hadn't decayed by now. But maybe they were still bound by sorcery. Grandfather didn't like people to call it sorcery, though "magic" was even worse. Magic was something magicians did, like the Morindim. Geran shook his head as he thought of the Morindim invasion that had taken place when he was six. The Morindim were crazy. No wonder grandfather didn't like people calling it "magic". Then what did grandfather call it? Geran wondered. That was right. He called it, "The Will and the Word" or "our particular talent". Geran thought about it. Sure, "The Will and the Word" sounded better, but basically, it was just sorcery.  
  
The Tolnedrans didn't believe in sorcery, Geran remembered. They thought it was some kind of trick. Geran thought that was pretty stupid, since the most important events in the world had been shaped by sorcery. Mother was an exception, of course. She had come to grips with that fact right about when Father had, and ever since then she didn't seem to have a problem. Father had said that she had been a bit startled when he turned into a wolf right in front of her eyes, though.  
  
Geran yanked his mind back from his wandering, just in time to see a glint of brown catch his eye. It wasn't the brown like the dry grass or the earth, it was a rich, mahogany brown, like dark leather. Geran picked his way over. A strip of the stuff showed through a covering of rubble and dirt. How long had it lain there? Geran started to dig the stuff around it away with his fingernails, then got a sharp shard of rock to use. Soon he tugged a small book free, bound in brown leather. It didn't seem to be harmed from the time it was buried. In fact, the pages were only slightly yellowed.  
  
Geran opened the book carefully, and read the first page. The letters were slanting and curved in a beautiful way, in dark ink that stood out against the pale page.  
  
THE BOOK  
  
Geran looked at the words for an instant, wondering whose it was. Then he shook himself for being so stupid. There was only one person who it could belong to.  
  
His fingers trembling slightly, Geran turned the page of the tower's maker and began to read.  
  
***  
  
Ha ha. Didn't tell you about my other story. I got impatient to have more than one, and decided to put in this one, about the little-known Angarak disciple of Aldur. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters and the world belong to David Eddings.  
  
I am about to leave. I suppose you could say die, but that's not exactly accurate. I won't die. I will be gone. And then, perhaps, I shall find the rest I need from this grief-filled agony that fills my soul. Every day it gnaws at me, making the hole in myself larger, and the pain greater. I cannot stand it anymore. I am going to give up. My brothers would say the idea is despicable. My brothers would say that there is always reason to live, always reason to continue. My brothers would say there is hope.  
  
My brothers do not understand.  
  
Belgarath, who has a veneer of foolishness but inside is more powerful than the rest of us combined, does not understand. Belzedar, who loves our Master more than anything in the world and yet is corrupted by this strange jewel, does not understand. Beltira and Belkira. They are gentle and kind, and they taught me when my nerves could not support myself any more, but they do not understand. Belmakor. Urbane, witty, and extremely intelligent. He is a Melcene, not an Angarak. He does not understand. Beldin. I helped him build his tower, a beautiful thing that looks as if it's made out of light, helped him design the beauty that reflects the heart within his dirty, horrendous body. Even he does not understand.  
  
Beldin has ugliness without and beauty within. I have no great claim to my looks, but my insides are slowly being gnawed away, by guilt, pain, suffering, horror. I cannot stand it any longer. Perhaps the Master would help, but I cannot bring myself to tell Him. No one can help me. I am in the middle of a bottomless void, a gaping hole around me that nothing can fill. Not love, not joy, not happiness, not light, not victory. They are all falling, all gone, all hollow. I look out at the world and find it is changing, into something twisted and different, something horribly mutated from what it used to be. As the continent was reft apart into two, so were the hearts and souls of the human race. And I am caught in the middle. I am an Angarak, but I follow Aldur. And while the children of Torak tear apart the children of Aldur and Belar and Nedra and Chaldan and Issa and Mara, while the Angaraks tear apart the West, I do not know where to turn. I am an Angarak, but I fight against my people, destroying them with no thought to the fact that they are innocent lives, just driving toward the need to win.  
  
A murderer is not someone who kills with remorse or chagrin or regret. A murderer is not someone who weeps over the body of one he has killed, or mourns one who has died by his hand. A murderer does not care who he kills, he kills without feeling, without emotion, simply aware that to get to his goal, he must kill. And so he kills.  
  
I, Belsambar, am a murderer many times over.  
  
But now, I must cease to wallow in my own grief and self-contempt, and at least attempt to begin at where everyone begins, if I am to write this Book.  
  
I must begin at the beginning.  
  
****  
  
The first thing I was aware of was pain. Pain and light assaulted my senses. I was no longer in that warm dark place in which my awareness first formed, but in an open space. An open space that terrified me with its emptiness, though my mind was yet unformed. Always before there was a sense of enveloping love, and closeness. Now there was only emptiness.  
  
Strange sounds came to my ears, jumbles of inflection and pitch, and I could not understand. I could have wailed. I could have let out the long, heart-broken cry of a newborn babe. But I did not. The pain increased. In the back of my mind, I somehow knew that they wanted me to cry, to submit to the pain. But my spirit rebelled, and I refused to cry, refused to make a sound.  
  
The pain went on for what seemed forever, an interminably long time. But then it stopped, fading away to nothing, and the light diminished. Somewhere near me I felt a warmth, like the warmth I had been covered by a short while before, and I clung to it, burying my face in the darkness. And then my thoughts faded into oblivion, and I slept.  
  
****  
  
As I slowly grew older and learned to formulate the sounds that traveled through the air, I knew three people in my small world. First, there was Mother. Mother was the center of my life. When Mother was happy and joyful, I smiled too, and when she seemed worried or concerned, I wondered what was wrong, though I had no words to form a question. Mother was warmth, Mother was closeness, Mother radiated love and caring and peace.  
  
Then there was Father. Father was quiet and morose, speaking mostly to Mother, and coming from time to time to look down at me with a grave face. Father was lean and tough, with a rangy form and deep eyes. He always had fainted lines of worry at his eyes, for reasons that I did not understand.  
  
And then there was Handmaiden. I hated Handmaiden, for some unexplained reason. She wasn't very old but her mouth was always pinched, and her long dark hair was stiff and wiry. She paid little, if any, attention to me, and seemed to dislike Mother as well.  
  
****  
  
I also learned, as I grew older and learned how to toddle around on little legs and speak in short sentences, that there were two places I could go. One was Outside, and the other was Inside. Outside was a place with grass and a bench, with a small pond and a bed of flowers. Outside was surrounded by the Wall, a high tall thing of stone. A tree grew near the Wall, and climbing ivy covered it.  
  
A door led from Outside to Inside. Inside was a large room with a window through which you could see Outside, and it was framed by thick red curtains of dyed wool. Near it was a dresser with a mirror and a stool. Braided rugs on the floor kept my feet from being stabbed by the sharp wooden splinters in the floor, and there was also a curtained-off tiny room, with a large earthenware tub that Handmaiden filled with water.  
  
There were two other doors that led from Inside: one led to a room full of clothes, that mother called a Closet, the other door was usually locked. I supposed that this door also led to a Closet. The Handmaiden and Father came from this Closet, but Mother almost never went into the Closet. So, I thought, it must be a Father and Handmaiden Closet.  
  
After a year or so, I became very curious about that closet, and finally, I found one day that they had forgotten to lock the door. I quietly opened the door, checked to see that Mother was safely Outside, and walked into the Closet. I found myself in a strange long room, lined with a few doors that looked like the one I had come from.  
  
Curious, I wandered to the end of the long room, and found stairs. I had never seen stairs before, so to me they looked like a series of descending ledges. Scrambling down the ledges awkwardly, I found myself in a large room lined with table, piled high with furs.  
  
Amazed, I wandered about, my young mind trying to make sense of these new and amazing sights. Finding a window, I looked out, expecting to see the familiar Outside, but instead a bewildering sight met my eyes.  
  
There was a street down the middle of two lines of blocky grey objects, houses like the one I stood in. For a few minutes I just stared, trying to make sense of this strange new phenomenon.  
  
Then I felt firm hands lifting me in the air, and turned to see Mother's stern face. Squirming as she carried me upstairs again, I was placed firmly in my bed, and Mother told me I was never to go through that door again.  
  
But I had already found out that it was no longer just Inside and Outside.  
  
I knew now there was the House and the World.  
  
****  
  
If you ever read White Fang, you may see similarities in their innocence. Belsambar's parents are quiet and hardly ever talk to him, so he doesn't know about the outside world, and he is just a child at this time. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: These world and characters belong to David Eddings.  
  
As the years passed, my mind developed and the words of the Angarak speech came to me, I began to ask questions of my mother.  
  
"Mother, why are we here?"  
  
"We are here, child, because the God Torak created the world and placed us on this earth."  
  
"Who is Torak?"  
  
"The God of the Angaraks."  
  
"What is he like?"  
  
"He is very cruel, and egotistical. He demands sacrifices, and many Angaraks are slaughtered for our God."  
  
"But why don't we just say no to Torak? Why don't we say we don't want to give sacrifices?"  
  
"Because if we do, my son, the Grolims will sweep down on us with their wicked curved knifes and drag us to the altar and bend us over backward and cut our hearts out."  
  
"Why are these Grolim so strong?"  
  
"They have sorcery, and with it they can do anything."  
  
"Anything?"  
  
"Anything."  
  
"I wish I was a sorcerer. Then I could stop them."  
  
"Child, if you were a sorcerer, either Torak would force you to become a Grolim, or he would kill you."  
  
"But that's not right! Why should our God treat us this way?"  
  
My mother would give a deep sigh, and take me into her arms. "I don't know, child. I don't know." And lines of worry would come onto her face.  
  
Sometimes, when she was sitting in the garden on the little bench, I saw the same look of worry and concern come onto her face as she sat staring into the pond. I could not bear to see her like that, so I would run up to her and throw my little arms around her, and she would look at me and smile, and the lines would be smoothed away, and the world was happy again. But, young as I was, I did not notice the gaze she cast over me as I walked away.  
  
***  
  
I was young, and the world was bright and beautiful. My days were passed in a long, eternal stretch of joy, of playing, of splashing my feet in the pond, pulling up grass and poking at the earth underneath to see what would come up, watching caterpillars crawl slowly up our tree, lying on my back in the warm grass and watching the clouds and flocks of birds fly by. The winter came, of course, and these days were spent in rolling in the cold, stinging snow, packing fat balls of snow to try to throw over the wall, making snow caterpillars that circled around the garden, and running in, my nose and ears red, to sit by the fireplace and warm my hands and feet.  
  
Sometimes, at night, when I lay in bed and blinked sleepily, I would say to my mother, "Tell me a story," and she would speak in her low, soothing voice, spinning me tales of people who could turn into animals and fly high above the clouds, until I slipped off into oblivion, and woke the next morning with sunlight streaming onto my face, and the wonderful smell of breakfast wafting to my nostrils.  
  
I knew there was a world outside of the walls, but I was not too interested in it. My world was here, with my mother and my elusive father, and the wonderful little garden and its single tree. Sometimes, now, I would be allowed to come down to the large room with the furs piled on the tables, when no one was there and the windows were curtained with gray, and my father would tell me in his quiet voice how this pelt was better than this one, and that one was rotting and would be no good.  
  
This was supposed to be my father's job, I learned. Trappers, lean, evil- looking men with scars, dressed all in leather, came to the house and sold my father their furs, and my father in turn cured them and sold them to other people who would make them into coats and fur capes.  
  
I was eight when I found out what my father's real job was.  
  
It was late at night, and I woke slowly from a deep sleep, turning slightly. The light stabbed into my eyes, and I opened them a crack, to see that a lamp was lit, and my mother was bending over my father's leg.  
  
They were speaking in low voices, and somehow I knew that I was not supposed to hear. I pretended to be asleep, and listened.  
  
"How many were killed?" my mother was asking in a low voice.  
  
"Grolims or Thulls?" my father asked.  
  
"Both."  
  
"We got seven Grolims before we heard the sounds of people coming. We left three of our own and two Thulls behind, but the rest of us got out of there."  
  
"So how were you wounded?"  
  
"A dog the Grolims that were coming had. It slashed at my leg as we ran."  
  
"How many Thulls we rescued?"  
  
"We got ten out of there, and we tore down the altar, too."  
  
"Gareshnyk," my mother lowered her voice still further, "I'm so worried! What if you get caught? What if a Grolim finds out who's behind all this? What if you're killed one mission, and they trace you back to us? I can't bear it if they kill both you and our son!"  
  
"And I couldn't bear it if they killed you. But what are we supposed to do? Sit by and watch this pointless sacrifice go on? I don't care if Torak's our god, he's a monster who revels in the taking of human life! As long as I can continue to liberate the Thulls, I'll do so."  
  
"Gareshnyk... What if they start sacrificing Nadraks? They haven't done so so far, but they'll figure out that it can't be Thulls rescuing their fellow peasants."  
  
"They need the Nadraks. They need the merchant class. They won't sacrifice us."  
  
I let my thought drift away, and contemplated all that I had heard that night. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to David Eddings.  
  
Oh, yes, just a note: when Thulls and Grolims and Nadraks and Murgos and Malloreans are mentioned, it doesn't mean the races, it means the social classes, because that was what they called them. The Thulls were what they called the peasants, the Grolims were priests, the Nadraks were merchants, the Murgos were noblemen, and the Malloreans were soldiers.  
  
________________________________________________________________________  
  
For a while I paid no attention to what I had heard that night when they thought I was asleep. I was far too busy practicing with the blunt wooden sword my father had given me for my nineth birthday, and I ran around the house and the room, battling imaginary opponents that were fierce and skilled, but I beat nonetheless. My mind filled with the thrill and excitement of that imaginary world of glory, I forgot the implications of the things my mother and father had said that strange night.  
  
But one day as I was watching my mother mend my favorite tunic, the question came to my mind, and I asked it without thinking. "Mother, what does Father do?"  
  
Absentmindedly, as her needle dipped into the fabric again, she answered, "He takes furs the trappers give him, cures them, and sells them to the higher classes."  
  
"No, I mean when he goes to fight the Grolims."  
  
My mother's head jerked up sharply. "How do you know about that?" she asked in a low, urgent voice.  
  
Puzzled, I told her. "One night when he came back, I heard you and him talking. I thought everyone was supposed to worship Torak, and willingly give sacrifices to him."  
  
My mother returned to her sewing, but there tension in the lines of her body. "Yes, we are all supposed to do so."  
  
"Then why does Father go and rescue Thulls?"  
  
Mother put down the tunic and her needle, and turned to face me, her dark eyes serious. "Listen very carefully, my son. Your father goes out to rescue Thulls because he doesn't believe what they do is right. He thinks that just because the Thulls are peasants, they shouldn't be killed just to appease their god. He believes that Torak should never have allowed it, and he has vowed to do everything to stop it. What he's doing is very, very dangerous, and he could be killed. But he does it anyway because he knows it is right."  
  
My eyes wide, I asked her, "And do you think it's right, too, Mother?"  
  
She took a deep breath. "Yes. I would join him, too, but once you were born, we decided I should take care of you. But, my son, never ever tell anyone about this. If you do, your father and I could be taken by the Grolims and killed for what we do. You have to keep this secret, and never tell anyone, no matter who it is."  
  
I nodded, still wide-eyed.  
  
"This secret will be just our secret, my son. None except your father, his partners, I, and you know it."  
  
"And the Thulls too?"  
  
"Your father and his partners dress all in black. The Thulls do not know who rescues them, because if they did, they would probably tell the information to the Malloreans."  
  
"And the Malloreans would arrest them?"  
  
"Yes, and probably you and I, too."  
  
"But we didn't rescue them."  
  
"We knew about it. Do you see why this is important? You must not tell your friends, strangers, your father's customers, anyone. You must keep this secret locked away in your brain and never let it out."  
  
I nodded solemnly, impressed by my mother's grave face. "Yes, mother."  
  
"Good." Then she took me in her arms and kissed me, and held me for a long moment. Finally she released me, with a smile on her face, and told me to go play in the garden.  
  
I had nine years on my back now, though, and I felt I was too old to go out and play in the garden like a little child. "Can't I do anything else?" I asked.  
  
A smile tugged at my mother's mouth. "Like what?"  
  
"I don't know. Chop firewood, or something."  
  
"Perhaps you can ask your father when he comes home."  
  
"Yes, mother." I looked around, and saw my 'sword' lying on the floor nearby. Running to get it, I began to battle my imaginary opponents. "Ha! Take that!" I shouted. "Die, evil villain!" And whirled about in a frenzy of wind-milling arms and sword.  
  
When my father walked in and I stopped fighting to run up and ask him what I could do, his dark, serious glance went to the sword. "Well, son," he said in the quiet voice that I always heard him use, and seemed to have something else behind the words, "why don't we teach you how to use a sword?"  
  
And so began my lessons. My father did not have much time, what with curing and bargaining furs during the day and going out to liberate Thulls from their sacrificial 'duties' at night, but he still found time to show me a new move, or correct a stance of mine, every evening. It was all very exciting, and I now could spar realistically with the air or even the table, which I unmercifully hacked until my mother told me to stop.  
  
In all my excitement, I overlooked the significance of the weapon of the sword.  
  
It was on my tenth birthday that I received my first real sword. It was also on that day that my life shattered.  
  
The morning of my birthday, I woke up to find two packages beside my bed. Opening them in great excitement, I found a new pair of boots and some wound balm, and pulled on my new footwear to admire. Then I noticed the long, thin shape that was lying a little distance away. In awe, I scrambled over to stare at it, and pulled off the furs shrouding it to reveal the gleaming blade of a sword. I gaped at it, tentatively rubbing my fingers over the smooth steel. Even back in that primitive day it was a beautiful sword, smooth and long. The blade shone, not with mirror brightness, but with a dangerous gleam that just made it more deadly. I was so busy staring at the sword, with its simple leather-bound hilt, that I did not notice that Father and Mother had come up and watch me, and when I looked up and saw them, I was still speechless.  
  
My father smiled slightly at the look on my face, and my mother came forward to embrace me. "May you have a glorious age-turning," she murmured to me.  
  
The rest of the day I spent practicing with the sword, nearly slicing Maid's apron open, to her intense displeasure. Maid had grown more and more ill-tempered over the years, but I hardly paid her any mind any more. I put a sizable gash in one of the tables in the large room downstairs, and cut my finger twice, but I was too happy with my new present to mind. My movements in the drill of the sword were still rather awkward, and in that faraway day swordsmanship was little but hacking at things in the right places, and putting enough force behind it to do damage.  
  
I was still small at that time, not having reached the time of my growth, when my limbs became long and gangly, and my attacks were fierce and intense, though my body itself was small. In the place of the unoffending tables and chairs I imagined Grolims, leering out at me with their dark faces---though I had never seen the Grolims of Torak---long knives suspended, ready to cut an innocent Thull's heart out. My overactive imagination spun the pleading look on the Thull's face, the desperation in the eyes, the reaching out of one unbound hand toward me in a gesture that broke my heart, even though it was only in my imagination. I renewed my attack with the ferocity of a tiger cub, blood surging through my head and blinding me with rage, and I knew nothing but the desire to avenge.  
  
When I finally came to myself again, the chair was in splinters, and I was panting heavily. I glanced around quickly, to see if anyone had seen my crazy exhibition, but there was no one there, and I sat down to rest, wondering if that was what my father felt when he saw the helpless Thulls being murdered. I somehow couldn't imagine my father feeling intense emotion, but then I remembered the urgency, the weariness in his voice. Thinking about the concept of two different personalities was very strange to me. Perhaps, like the House, my father had an Outside and an Inside. I pondered this as I sat, my sword lying forgotten in my hand.  
  
The day passed quickly as they all did, in an eternal stretch of laughter and emotion and happiness. Then, they were brim-full of intense emotion, whether it was sadness at a hurt or a restriction, or exhilaration in the realms of bright imagination, or love for my mother and father that came from the depths of my little heart. It seemed when I was a child, the world was alive and beautiful, unmarred by the dark thoughts that came as age advanced. But I never thought that age would come so quickly, so swiftly, and so deadly.  
  
That night, as I squirmed beneath the covers of the bed, my mother told me a special story since it was my birthday, her soothing voice rising and falling in cadences.  
  
"There was a little boy, who was born in a great tall House in the depths of the woods of the land where the Angaraks lived, and inside this boy there glowed a strange fire that was strange and beautiful. This fire sprang out in a blazing flame when joy overwhelmed him, and dwindled to a small wavering tongue when he was sad, and it was always within him, to warm his soul.  
  
"And this little boy's flame grew as he became older, and soon it sprang out within him and he used it to slay bad men who would kill his friends, and mother and father, and no one could touch the ones he loved, because of the fire he used as a gift and a weapon. And this little boy grew powerful, and was the greatest of all Angaraks, for he did not believe in the sacrificial ceremonies performed by the Grolims of Torak, and he delivered many, just as did his father within him.  
  
"This little boy shook the world with his steps, and spoke to all living creatures, and even became one with them, that he might deal out justice and good to those who walked the land, which would be ripped apart by war."  
  
Slowly I slipped away into darkness, reveling in the visions spun by my mother's voice.  
  
*  
  
When I woke, the house was in turmoil. The door of the room had been thrown open, and little candles were bobbing up and down the hallway. My mother stood at the door, looking out into the dark hall, dressed in a heavy brocade gown. I cautiously sat up, wondering what was happening.  
  
My father slipped in the door and closed it behind him, taking my mother by the shoulders with the haste of someone in a hurry. I leaned forward.  
  
"Take the boy and go," my father was saying urgently. "I don't know how they found out, but they did. Now you must go. Ykeruksn, Deowncskke, and I will fight them."  
  
"You can't fight them alone!" my mother protested, her voice raw with emotion. "Gareshnyk, I'm staying too!"  
  
"And what of our son?"  
  
"He can go with the nurse. We'll go a different way. Please, Gareshnyk!"  
  
My father glanced back, pressing his ear to the door. "They're coming. They've got dogs, Ilumaken. Dogs and knives."  
  
"I don't care. I was with you before he was born, and I'll be with you again. If I've got to go down, I'll go down with you. Fighting."  
  
My father listened again. Now I could hear the yelps of hounds and sound of many men shouting in the distance, and it frightened me. I slipped out of my bed. "Mother?" I asked, my little voice sounding frightened in the cold darkness. "What's going on?"  
  
"The bad men are coming, my son. They found out that your father was rescuing Thulls, and they're coming."  
  
"The Grolims? How?"  
  
"I don't know," my father put in. "Ilumaken, this isn't wise."  
  
"I don't care," my mother said fiercely, then turned to me. "We're going to go try to make a stand, with your father's partners. The maid will help you get to safety."  
  
Maid. My brow furrowed. "But I want to go with you. I can use a sword."  
  
My father groaned softly.  
  
"No, son," my mother said firmly. "We'll see you again. Now we need to get out of here."  
  
I grabbed my sword in the darkness, buckled it on, and pulled traveling clothes on. My mother's hands shook as they put together a bundle for me. Then we crept out into the corridor. The shouts and screams were louder here, and the sound of battle echoed through the hall. There was a bright flash from somewhere downstairs, of glittering red and gold, and I was suddenly aware of the seeping heat that was permeating the air.  
  
"Fire," muttered my father. "There goes my livelihood."  
  
"But not our lives," my mother told him. "Maid?"  
  
"Here." The Maid loomed out of the darkness. For a minute I thought she had a ghastly grin on her face, but then she came into the brief light of our candle and I saw she was frowning.  
  
"Take the boy and get to safety," my father told her. "We're going out the back door."  
  
We dashed to the end of the hall, peering down the stairs. Yellow flame licked up the wooden steps, wavering dangerously in its flickering light like some liquid tiger poising on the stairs. Then we turned and ran back to the other end, uncomfortably conscious of the heat rising in the room, sweat rolling down our faces. My father tapped along the wall, searching for a spot as the fire rose higher, crackling and spitting. He found it and a panel in the wall opened, revealing the dark forest outside. We dashed out, and I looked back at our house, from the outside for the first time. The downstairs faced out on a narrow street, and the upstairs was on a hill. Flame consumed it from within, and the yelps and howls of dogs were heard.  
  
My father pointed for the maid. "That way!" he hissed, and he and my mother took off in the opposite direction. I felt a horrible wrench as they went, but turned as Maid took my arm and dragged me off into the woods. A dog's cry was uncomfortably near as we went on and on, stumbling through the brush, Maid dragging me over logs submerged in the forest floor and thick fern-growth. We were nearing the dog, as I could tell from the increased volume and I hissed to Maid, "Not that way! We're getting closer to them!"  
  
She tried to hit me, but I dodged, as she growled, "Shut up, little brat."  
  
"No!" I braced my legs. "Why are we going nearer to them? Tell me!"  
  
"Guess, brat." She yanked at me, and I stumbled forward, she dragging me toward the sounds. "You aren't the pampered baby of the household any more."  
  
There were horses riding through the trees at us, some riders clothed in red, others in robes of deepest black, their hoods pulled up. I felt a chill go through me, as foreboding swamped my senses. I found I was trembling, scared. I'd never been in this kind of danger before, and I didn't know what to think. I was so naïve I didn't even realize the obvious implications of what Maid was doing and had said.  
  
"Halt!" the front rider, dressed in red with a mail tunic commanded in the harsh, guttural language of Old Angarak.  
  
"It is I." Maid spoke up in her nasal, whining voice. "With their boy."  
  
I stared at them both. Maid knew him? Who was he?  
  
"Good. Did it go as suggested?"  
  
"It did, my lord. They are heading straight into the ambush."  
  
The Mallorean smiled. "And Gareshnyk and his blasted wife are doomed. Torak bless you, who were loyal enough to inform us of his blasphemous practices."  
  
I was in such a state of shock I didn't realize what they had said until it had sunk in. Then fiery rage welled up inside me, a deep yearning to avenge. But I was just a boy, and I was too scared to take action, too scared of these huge soldiers wearing clothes of steel. I stood there silently, raging within myself. There was a great surging feeling in my head, as if I was gathering something up.  
  
Suddenly a black-robed figure started forward suddenly. "My lord." His voice was harsh and rasping.  
  
"What?" the Mallorean looked at him suspiciously.  
  
"The boy." The figure pointed at me. "His mind is aware."  
  
"Aware? What do you mean?" the Mallorean frowned.  
  
The black-robed figure drew back his hood and revealed a face dominated by heavy scars running down the side of it. His burning eyes were fixed intensely on me, and I realized with a sudden icy feeling that this was a Grolim, a priest of Torak. "His mind is aware, Yurkwonse. Aware of its own will."  
  
This meant absolutely nothing to me, but the Mallorean's eyes widened suddenly. "Are you sure?"  
  
"I am trained in these things."  
  
The Mallorean eyed me dubiously. "He'll never agree, Gerkokag."  
  
"He will have to." A grim smile split the Grolim's scarred face. "And I know just how he can demonstrate his loyalty to Torak." 


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: The world and some of the characters belong to David Eddings._

* * *

My legs trembled and my arms shook in fear, ten years old as I was. I was in the hands of the evil Grolims of Torak, and they were trying to find my father and mother, as well. I hoped Father and Mother would escape, but I wasn't sure. These evil Grolims of Torak could do almost anything, since Torak had given them enough power to be evil as they were. What would they do to Mother and Father if they caught them? 

I paced up and down in the small room that resembled a cell. There was a hard cot there, but the rest of the room was bare. The door was thick and sturdy, and locked. The window was not barred, but it was so small that even I could not squeeze through it. I was trapped here, and they could do anything they wanted to with me. They could torture me or kill me or... even my active imagination could not conjure up suitable horrors, but the mere thought of a nameless horror, something no one could even speak up, was enough to make my chest seize up. 

I hoped my Mother and Father would never be caught. I hoped they could use their deadly swords to fend off those evil minions of Torak. Maybe they would have a glorious battle and triumph and then come back to rescue me! Maybe they would smash down the walls of this horrible prison I had found myself in, and we would flee into the darkness of the forest, our feet as swift as eagles. Maybe they would kill the evil priests of Torak that they had fought for so long! 

I felt a bursting pride swell up in me when I thought of Father, so silent and unobtrusive, but holding a deadly secret, another identity, a belief so strong he would go against his god for it, underneath that quiet exterior. It was just like the stories Mother had told me, of great heroes. She had told me that one day I would be great, and I would go out and triumph over evil and conquer bad and bring peace to the world. And I would! As soon as they rescued me, I would learn how to swordfight better and I would go with them and help them rescue more Thulls and more sacrificial victims! I thought of Mother, so beautiful and courageous, to follow Father even throughout the most dangerous part of the choice he had made: to ignore the evil or to fight it. I loved Mother, and Father was Father, the man I wanted to be like when I was older. And Maid... 

My thoughts of glory jerked up abruptly as I remembered Maid, the sneering look on her face as she had shoved me toward the Malloreans who had tossed me in this prison that I was now in. Hot rage welled up inside of me, and flung myself at the cot, ripping at its straw with my fingers, red spots rising in front of my eyes. I yelled at the cot, it suddenly becoming the object of all my hatred, and started to tear it apart. 

A harsh, rasping voice came from the doorway, "Don't do that, boy." 

I spun, and saw the scarred Grolim standing there, his eyes burning as he looked at me. 

"Well?" he asked as I stared at him. 

"Go away," I spat at him, wishing my fingers were strong enough to strangle him. 

"I don't think so." His black robes rustling, he entered, the door shutting with a clang behind him. I caught a glimpse of red Mallorean armor outside. "You have power, boy. Torak has commanded that all those with power be brought to him to be trained as his Grolims, to perform the worship services and convert the world to the Dragon God. And what Torak has commanded, shall be done. You will go to Torak, and give your power to him, and he will make you a Grolim." 

I jerked myself away from his mesmerizing eyes. "I won't!" I shouted. 

He looked startled, and angry. "Torak has commanded, boy. You _will_ obey him." 

"I won't!" I shouted again, white-hot fury bursting free again. "Grolims are evil! They kill innocent men for the pleasure of a demented god! Torak is crazy! Torak is evil! I wish I wasn't an Angarak! I wish he wasn't the god! My father fought Torak's will and saved the people YOU tried to kill, and I will too! I'll NEVER become a Grolim! NEVER! NEVER!" 

Rage flashed across his face, and he grabbed my arm, his fingers biting into my wrist harshly. "You're wrong, boy. You WILL obey. Or else..." He trailed off, then added, "We have something to show you." 

I struggled, but he was too strong, and he dragged me out, into the corridor, and the Mallorean fell into step behind us. We marched down what seemed endless corridors and passages, sometimes passing other black-robed Grolims, but finally we came up behind a long line of marching Grolims, moving with a strange rhythmical pace, their hands clasped. They were chanting in deep tones, their cowls casting shadows over their scarred faces. For the first time I realized the reek of some foul odor was in the air, some burning smell. Suddenly a chill of foreboding struck me, shivering down my body to end in a horrible sick feeling in my stomach. 

The Grolim's iron grip on my shoulder tightened, and we moved along the chanting line of Grolims, the Mallorean silent behind us. The chanting was growing louder, and the stench in the air stronger, penetrating the air like an inky blackness. Suddenly a shrill shriek split the air, and I stopped dead. The Grolim yanked at my arm and dragged me on as my insides congealed. 

An arched doorway loomed ahead, and suddenly I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, with the dread that had suddenly turned me to ice. Another shriek echoed, a shriek of animal-like pain. Suddenly the most horrible thing I could think of was going through that doorway. I tried to tear away, to stop, my eyes wide in terror, to die before I would have to enter that doorway. Fear exploded through my brain, and I lashed out at the Grolim, trying to break free. 

The chant grew louder, and then we passed through the arch of the doorway. It was a huge, dark room, so big that I couldn't see the ceiling, so far above. If it weren't for the wall opposite me, I would have thought I had stepped into a black void of emptiness. In the wall was dug an alcove, and in the throne was seated the most beautiful-and cruel-man I had ever seen. His presence filled the room with a dark, rank odor that told the lie to his beautiful appearance. It was tangible power, wrapping around the hearts of every Grolim in the room, and reaching out for more and more. 

Suddenly the eyes in that beautiful face turned, and I was staring into the eyes of Torak, god of Angarak. 

I was frozen, mesmerized by those terrible eyes, that power that had me fixed to the spot. I couldn't breathe or move, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to bow down before the god of Angarak and worship him, and offer him my power. 

_"He is very cruel, and egotistical. He demands sacrifices, and many Angaraks are slaughtered for our God."_ My mother's words echoed through my head, and I tore myself away from those mesmerizing eyes. 

And then my gaze fell on the altar. 

Fresh blood streaked its black surface, and the brazier beside it glowed, waiting eagerly for the next sacrifice. The red blood was mixed with the crusted black of dried blood, and the slimy color of internal organs. I felt the contents of my stomach come up into my throat. Were they going to execute me? My entire body tingled with fear? Were they going to sacrifice me and cut out my heart? 

Suddenly my gaze focused on the Grolim who approached the altar, his hood down. In his hands he carried a blood-red pillow, and on it was a knife. A long, cruel, gleaming knife. 

He held it up as an offering to the Dragon God who sat in the alcove. "Behold the instrument of thy will, Dragon God of Angarak, and behold him whose heart is to be offered unto thee." 

And then they dragged Father up to the altar. 

My vision swam before my eyes, but I couldn't move. Father was thrown roughly on the altar as he shouted something out defiantly at the Dragon God. 

And then, with a cruel smile on his face, the Grolim cut out my father's heart. He screamed once, and then was silent. The Grolim lifted up the heart to Torak, and the body was dashed into the fire pit as the heart was lowered to Torak. 

A great silence descended on me, and I watched in a daze, as if this was some dream I'd stumbled into. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. 

But then Mother was dragged out. Her eyes flickered across the watchers, and she saw me, and reached out a hand toward me, but they grabbed her and flung her onto the altar. 

And they cut out her heart. 

I could hear someone screaming in the distance, screaming again and again, and only when I had to draw breath did I realize it was me. Screaming and screaming and screaming... 


	6. Not an Update, Just a Note

Not an Update, Just a Note  
  
Note:  
  
So incredibly sorry, everyone. This summer's been long and I've been neglecting most of my fanfictions. To add to that, I only have internet access one hour a week. But in a week I'll be going back to boarding school, where I have constant internet access. So, please, bear with me, and I'll make every effort to update my stories once I get there. I've got a lot to do this final week, like packing and finishing up all these weird projects I've gotten tangled up in, but within three weeks, I promise, I'll have updates for all of my David Eddings fanfictions-except After the Prophecies, of course. 


	7. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: The world and some of the characters belong to David and Leigh Eddings. Part of the plot is mine, and part of it is from Belgarath the Sorcerer._

Note: This is a short chapter, I know, but I'm still working with many of the things that I'm going to have to write. And this part really did deserve its own chapter.

* * *

** Chapter 6**

I floated in a void of interminable blackness, where there was no light or even sound. I was all alone, and I felt an unbearable twisting fear in my heart. There was nothing but emptiness surrounding me, a void of terrible emptiness. There was pain, horrible pain and an icy cold that bit into my body, convulsing me although I could not see or move my limbs. I was nothing. I struggled to cry out, and was suddenly aware that the light was growing, and a faint sound was coming to my ears.

Then, with a sudden shock, I woke, and found that the sound was my own voice, rasping as I tried to scream. I cleared my throat again, and tried to cry out, but my voice was gone, doubtless from screaming the entire night. Screaming from the minute the Grolims had cut my mother's heart out...

My heart wrenched, and tears poured out of my eyes and down my cheeks, my entire body shuddering with soundless sobs. Mother was dead. Father was dead. Mother would never tell me stories in her beautiful voice, or embrace me, or smile at me. She would never be there again, a warm presence that I could tell was there even in my sleep, comforting and soothing me as I drifted in oblivion. Mother, with her will of steel and her eyes of fire, was dead.

And Father had been killed as well. Father, my brave father of the two personalities, the Outside as smooth and quiet as rustling silk, calm and self-effacing. And the Inside, hard as steel, defiant as towering waves on a storm-tossed sea...

Slowly my sobs calmed, and through the haze of pain a cold awareness descended on me. Mother and Father were dead. And the Grolims had killed them. Killed them? No, murdered. I stood up suddenly, straightening from the small cot in my cell. The Grolims had murdered Mother and Father. And now they would pay. They would pay, they and their cruel god, evil Torak. Maybe not now. I was not strong enough, and I did not have a weapon. But one day, they would pay.

The tapping of shoes on a steel floor penetrated through my thoughts, and I turned to face the door, waiting for doom to befall me.

A scarred face appeared as the iron door of my cell was opened, and an icy rage rushed through me. The Grolim. Perhaps he would be the first to pay the price. 

The black-robed man stepped into the chamber. "Well, boy? Have you realized the folly of your resistance now?"

I looked coldly at him, without speaking. 

"Very well. Do not speak. But now I shall take you to Torak, for he has summoned you. He will bend you to his will, and you shall be one of us."

A sudden icy certainty rushed through me. He was right. Torak was a god. I could not think to match his crushing will with my own. And so there was only one solution: never to meet him at all. 

The Grolim came forward, and I watched him impassively, coiled like a spring. Thoughts flashed through my mind. If I dodged past him, he would raise the alarm, and I would not get far. 

The Grolim knelt, and as he unlocked the iron on my leg, I suddenly realized I had been shackled to the bed. So even they did not trust me. Wise choice. But now he wasn't being so intelligent.

As the shackle fell off my ankle, I kicked the Grolim in the face.

With a strangled sound, he fell backward, red seeping from his nose. Quickly, I kicked him in the stomach to wind him, and he doubled over, gasping for breath. Ripping his over-robe open, I found a long curved knife at his belt, and pressed the steel edge to his throat.

Red seeped from a thin line where the dagger cut into his skin. Should I kill him? He was a man, after all.

No. He was not a man. He was a Grolim. And he had killed my parents. My heart turned to ice, and I cut the Grolim's throat.

I had very little time. I wiped the dagger on the black robes, stuck it in my belt, and ran to the door, open a crack. Peering outside, I saw the hall was empty. So, he had thought he could handle me himself. His misconceptions were his doom. I took one last look back at the still figure on the floor of my cell. Blood was pouring from his throat, and for a moment I swayed, but then the wall of ice slammed in place around me. They had murdered Mother and Father.

Then I turned and dashed down the dark halls of the temple.  
  


* * *

  
I was in a haze of darkness and ice, and all I knew was that I was running, desperately trying to find a way out of the shadowed halls. It was like a nightmare, running through an endless maze, never able to get out, as something nameless pursued me. 

Through the cold that had seized my body, I was acutely aware of the direction of the temple, and the direction of the being I most hated. Above all costs I had to get away from it, stay as far away as possible.

Suddenly I emerged into a wider hall, lined with side hallways, the vaulted ceiling stretching up in the gloom. There was flickering light at the end of its vast distance, and my limbs froze. As I got control of them, the cold calculation of my brain told me that running would make me inconspicuous, and the halls were not completely empty. So I crept down the hallways, my nerves tingling, my hand on my dagger.

Somewhere in the warren of hallways I heard footsteps begin, tapping ominously throughout the halls, echoing from a dozen different places. I looked around wildly, searching for the source, but it could have come from any hallway. Panicking, I began to run, my feet thudding into the stone floor in a headlong dash toward the flickering light. The footsteps were getting louder.

I wasn't going to make it to the end of the hall. Taking a chance, I darted down of the side hallways, and ran down it. To either side black doors lined the corridor. I could still hear the footsteps, and they seemed to be following me. I hesitated for a single moment, then I dove for one of the doors. I yanked it open and slipped into darkness. Closing the door, I stood absolutely still, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and listening for both the footsteps and for any occupant of the room. 

There was no sound in the room, but the footsteps were slowly and gradually fading away. I waited until I could not hear them, and then cautiously opened the door, allowing a sliver of light to fall within. 

It was a very small room, and it was, indeed, empty, of any sign of inhabitation. There was only a straw mattress on a frame with no blankets on it, and a small table. There was a bracket on the wall, probably for a torch, but it was unoccupied now. 

As I looked around, an idea came to me. A few minutes ago, I had been running headlong down the maze of halls, searching for a way out. But why did I want to get out? A snarl curled my lips. What I wanted was right here: revenge. Unseen, an invisible enemy within the temple, I could kill off Grolims one by one, and no one would know who or what had done it.

I prowled around the room. Obviously, each of the Grolims had sleeping quarters. It wouldn't be too hard to get into their rooms while they were asleep, and if they were up and down this hall, I could get to them easily. 

One by one, they would die. One by one, they would pay for the death of my mother and father. 


End file.
